


The Hidden Hand: Winter Ball

by SaigonTimeMD



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Light Angst, Multi, getting sauced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaigonTimeMD/pseuds/SaigonTimeMD
Summary: Because I cannot draw for shit, I decided to instead write a collection of vignettes featuring my OCs at the #WarcraftWinterBall





	The Hidden Hand: Winter Ball

Night fell over Dazar’alor, but the jewel of Zandalar gleamed on, defiant against the lengthening winter nights. Trade Prince Gallywix’s finest – well, cheapest – electrical engineers had transformed the city of gold into the city of lights: strings of multi-colored bulbs stretched for miles, draped across railings, door arches, walkways, palm trees, and even a few loa shrines with less-than-vigilant keepers. Wreaths made from a combination of Ashenvale pine and Zuldazar palms hung above every entryway, and a team of the Horde’s most aesthetically-inclined mages had summoned a thick cloud around the capital’s central spire, dusting the golden city with a thin layer of snow. The few city guards still on-duty wore heavy furs over their sparse gold-plated armor, and relaxed at their posts, one hand resting on their weapon hilts and the other held out to catch snowflakes in their hands. To an outside observer, the usually-bustling city would’ve seemed at rest, but within its frosted golden walls, Dazar’alor was more alive than it had been in months. Beneath the Great Seal, in the grand feasting halls of the king, the Winter Ball was in full swing.

While King Rastakhan and the Zandalari had been somewhat skeptical of the mischievous weirdness of Hallow’s End, the communal nature (and non-stop feasting) of Pilgrim’s Bounty had won over many of them to the idea of entertaining outsiders’ holidays, and by the Feast of Winter Veil, thanks in no small part to the Horde’s large part in the defeat of the blood trolls and their abhorrent god G’huun, King Rastakhan was happy to not only allow open celebration of the holiday, but to host the Winter Ball himself.

Now he sat at the head of a massive table of gold, the entire length decorated with jewel-encrusted loa reliefs, watching the scene below the elevated dias unfold with keen interest – concealed by the same passive mask of royal boredom he had cultivated over decades of rule. To his right sat his daughter, the princess Talanji, and to his left, and at a respectfully lowered elevation, sat the Horde’s leader, the one they called Warchief: Sylvanas Windrunner. King Rastakhan had found reading the undead elf an enjoyable challenge, albeit one he felt was getting the better of him the more he observed of her. He respected her, but he did not trust her. She was too much like Zul. He saw it in her eyes whenever she wasn’t directly engaged, either by him or by her guard dog Blightcaller, how they unfocused into empty pools of crimson as the mind behind them went to work, perpetually playing chess with the future. While Zul, even at his most magnanimous, enjoyed poking and prodding those around him with random bits of prophecy (and sometimes outright lies) for all manner of reasons from grave purpose to self-amusement, Warchief Windrunner had navigated every social engagement with a manipulative precision bordering on surgical – all while never relaying any information, either about herself or the goings on in the world at large, that King Rastakhan did not already know. No, he did not trust her, but he would be a fool to show it. She probably already knew.

“I see our guests are getting along,” he said, gesturing to the great hall before them. From end to end, it was packed with trolls, Zandalari and otherwise, orcs of varying shades, both Mulgore and Highmountain tauren, goblins, blood elves, nightborne, pandaren, and undead, dressed in their finest. Some wore festive fashions, with red ribbons and bells that jingled with every step, while others wore less-armored variations of military uniform; a few, mostly tauren and their fellow druids, wore ceremonial dress made from natural materials like pine garlands and ice crystal jewelry, dancing as living avatars of the solstice among their more secular brethren. There was no refuge for wallflowers, as the sides of the hall were taken up entirely by tables filled with overflowing punch bowls and perilously-stacked sweets, and the balconies on either side were entirely occupied with the finest musicians the Horde had to offer: brass, percussion, and string players from every bards’ college in Kalimdor (and a few from the Eastern Kingdoms) gave voice to Winter Veil traditionals over the balcony railings. The chord progressions were a bit complicated for the king’s liking, but everything about the holiday was new; he’d tolerated far more annoying things for his people in his time.

“They’ve been instructed to be on their best behavior,” the Warchief answered, inclining her head in his direction. The corners of her mouth rose by barely a centimeter, which King Rastakhan, in the few days he had spent with her, observed was as close to a ‘pleasant smile’ as Warchief Windrunner ever came. “It would be a pity to ruin such a pleasant evening with petty conflicts.”

In King Rastakhan’s experience, the occasional petty conflict could actually liven up a pleasant evening considerably, but he kept that to himself.

“The only thing that could ruin this evening is if your nightborne friends continue to clap on the one and the three,” he said. The Warchief said nothing – he suspected she had already slipped back into whatever far-reaching plots and politics occupied her mind whenever the small talk began (not that he could blame her) – but King Rastakhan thought he saw the corner of Blightcaller’s beard twist up into a smirk. The Banshee Queen’s second was a tactless, single-minded, nigh-humorless man who annoyed everyone around him just by being in the room, but he was steadily growing on the king in spite of it. Blightcaller was loyal to a fault, as blunt in conversation as the Warchief was careful, and lacked the patience to lie effectively, so he just told the truth most of the time, no matter how far-fetched or unpleasant. “But I was not talking about the revelers.”

“I know,” was the Warchief’s only response.

The Hidden Hand – or what they had once been – was the brutosaur in the room that neither he nor the Warchief had addressed directly since her arrival. Half of them had infiltrated his chambers at night – a display of prowess more impressive than threatening – offering their services, and precious intelligence on the inner workings of the Horde, in return for protection from the Horde itself, and the other half had shown up on his docks a day later, having rescued his daughter and (eventually ex-)prophet from an Alliance prison. When the latter discovered the presence of the former, there had been...tension, but they mostly maintained a respectful distance from one another since then. Now he could pick out each one among the crowd, all in the same great hall. King Rastakhan’s thoughts drifted back to Zul once more; they had been allies, if not friends, for many years. How would he react if the old prophet inexplicably walked through the great golden archway at the far end of the hall, as he had done so many times in life, with his hands raised in greeting once more?

 

Vendettarius watched over the lid of his punch glass as the Zandalari king murmured something to the Warchief. She snorted, and Blightcaller stiffened uncomfortably at her side. That was a good sign, in theory; Sylvanas wasn’t in the habit of laughing at all, let alone at something she didn’t find funny. King Rastakhan was more observant than he seemed, but not as observant as he thought himself, and Vendettarius wondered if he hadn’t told the old troll enough about Warchief Windrunner. He took another careful sip through his lipless teeth and pushed the doubt from his mind. He was hunting a different mark this evening; the old king was on his own for tonight.

The waist-high pair of unadorned, pointed green ears Vendettaris had been tracking for the last half hour concluded their business with a retired troll general and began to move towards the front of the hall. Vendettarius finished his punch and left the empty glass on the table as he followed. He shadowed her in a serpentine pattern – never staying on one side for too long, and certainly never staying directly behind – and tried to suppress the feelings rising in his chest, despite the fact that his heart was as still as the grave. Had she seen him already? Did she know he was following her at that very moment? He used to be able to sneak up on her in broad daylight, but those days were done. She was too clever now, too smart, too good to be caught unawares, maybe even in the middle of a crowded dancefloor. If he made himself known – or if she caught him – what would he even say? How would he begin? How would _they_ begin? The questions gnawed at the pit of his stomach, but the need to see her was stronger than the fear of the consequences.

The ears abruptly changed direction, making a 90-degree turn and heading for a punch fountain made of crystal-inlaid gold. Vendettarius doubled his pace, snaking between the dancing merrymakers and closing the distance with barely an effort. He saw the ears perk up, no doubt in response to his approach, but he was past caution, past caring. He couldn’t stand one more moment of silence between them, one more day of both of them living in the same city and acting like the other wasn’t there. He pushed through the last barrier of revelers and saw…

The wrong goblin.

Her ears were bare, and her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but the similarities ended there: from the nose down, she was clad in garish gold jewelry, with a fur-lined green dress that wouldn’t have kept her warm even in Zandalari’s tropical climate, and heels that added almost another foot to her height. She turned and smiled at him, flashing a spiked, golden grill, and downed an entire glass of punch in one gulp before tossing it over her shoulder.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” she slurred out, then let out a belch. “You lookin’ for somebody?”

“I, uh, I thought you were someone else,” Vendettarius admitted, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Oh, I get that a lot, sweetheart,” the goblin sighed, giving him a wink. She began to saunter over, and he took a reflexive step backward. “Maybe ya seen me in ya dreams?”

“I strongly doubt that,” a voice behind him said.

Vendettarius turned, and there she was.

Lingexi wore a long, dark red dress, with a fur-lined cloak of the same color draped around her bare shoulders, and a matching ribbon choker around her neck with a silver Horde insignia in the middle. Her long black hair was done up above her head in a pearl-adorned bun save for two long curls on either side of her face. A single pair of simple star earrings framed her jaw. Her turquoise eyes met his, and the dancers, the city, the world beyond her disappeared from his notice.

“Vendettarius.”

_She’s playing it formal,_ he thought,  _you can handle this. Be cool. Now you say HER name. Or nod. Or do anything. Say anything. Say SOMETHING._

“Uh, hi.”

_Not that._

“This is the guy? Thought you said he was the best.”

The goblin he had been following walked past him, addressing Lingexi, perfectly sober. She’d already replaced a dozen golden baubles on either ear, and the black wig had been removed to reveal a short shock of bright, orange hair.

“He is,” Lingexi said, flicking a nonexistent piece of fluff from the collar on his dark red suit. “But he has his weaknesses.”

“As you say, ma’am,” the other goblin said, raising an eyebrow. “Anything else, spymaster?”

“Try to enjoy yourself? You’re off-duty tonight, you know?”

“I’ll make an attempt, ma’am. Enjoy your evening.”

“Nice girl,” Vendettarius said, watching the other goblin vanish into the crowd.

“She doesn’t really ‘switch off,’” Lingexi answered. “Not like you know anyone like that. Her partner’s usually stationed at Camp Mojache this time of year, but I pulled some strings and got her some time off – and an invite. She doesn’t know, though.”

A goblin and a tauren squealing in unison cut through the festive music for only a moment, then disappeared in the jingling bells and sounding horns.

“Now she knows?”

“Now she knows.”

“Wanna dance?”

“What?”

Vendettarius swept Lingexi up in his arms and the two were off, joining the loose formation of waltzers near the center of the hall. For a moment, the two were silent, whirling along with the rest of the revelers; she looked at anyone but him, and he looked at no-one but her. Her hands were tense at first, then relaxed into his own, her thumb rubbing against his shoulder absentmindedly, her feet dangling down by his belt.

“Picking me up and carrying me around like a sack of potatoes. Classy,” Lingexi said after a long silence.

“Well, consider it payback for the half-hour goose chase,” Vendettarius replied, maneuvering around a pair of drunken Tauren. “Was I really that obvious?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “If it makes you feel any better, I was feeding your position to her the whole time.” Lingexi tapped one of her earrings, and communication bead within glowed faintly blue in response.

“Where  _were_ you, then?”

Lingexi’s eyes went wide with mock indignation.

“Mr. Vendettarius! A lady never tells!”

“And a gentleman never asks,” he finished. The waltz ended, segueing into a slow ballad with muted horns and brushed drums. Vendettarius could feel Lingexi’s heartbeat speed up.

“How’s the team?” she asked. She looked up at him, and turned several shades darker green when she realized he hadn’t stopped looking at her.

“It’s been an adjustment, but they’re making it work. The humidity’s hell on Shirong. Khatep’s seeing the apocalypse every time he meditates. You know, the usual. How’s  _your_ team?”

“Weird. Picked up a new member, actually. He’s quite a fan of your work.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” Vendettarius said, cocking his head.

“I can’t tell you anyway, so it’s a moot point.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Pick one.”

His hand tightened around her waist, and he dipped her slowly in a semi-circle as a small space on the floor opened up. When he pulled her back up, she was looking away again.

“How are  _you_ ?” he asked.

“You don’t get to ask me that,” she answered, a little too quickly.

“You tried to kill me with a dagger the last time we had an actual conversation; I feel like I can ask you whatever I want.”

“I was  _trying_ to stop you from committing  _treason_ ,” she hissed. “And it was  _two_ daggers.”

“My mistake,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I miss you.”

She stiffened in his arms and looked away.

“I miss you more than I can express with the somewhat limited vocabulary available to me with you in my arms.”

“Then put me down,” Lingexi said through clenched teeth.

“Not a chance. I miss your smile, I miss the way you hit me with a pillow when I’m snoring, I miss  _us_ .”

“Please stop.” Lingexi’s fingers were digging into his shoulder and his hand.

“No. Come away with me. Forget the Hidden Hand and stay  _here._ Stay with me.”

Lingexi looked at Vendettarius as if he’d grown another head on his shoulders.

“Are you insane? Vend, I’m coordinating dozens of operations across two continents _—_ ”

“In a war that shouldn’t be happening!”

“In a war that  _is_ happening!”

They stopped moving, and the others danced on around them, oblivious.

“We couldn’t stop it!” Lingexi snapped. “ _You_ couldn’t stop it! None of us could! Now it’s here, and you  _left_ !  _You_ left  _me!_ You left me and—”

A towering nightborne bumped into Vendettarius, sending the two of them into motion again with an apologetic grunt. As he inadvertently pulled her closer, Lingexi’s head came to rest against Vendettarius’ shoulder. She didn’t move it away.

“I miss dancing like this.”

“Us arguing over treason the entire time?” he asked.

“I’m at the perfect height to kick you right in dick, don’t ruin the moment,” she said, still leaning against him.

“Yes ma’am.”

He rested his chin on the top of her head as they swayed back and forth, and he focused in on the sound of her breathing against his chest, blocking out the rest of the noise of the ball.

“What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Vendettarius whispered. “I’d be on the first boat back to Orgrimmar—”

“Nathanos would have you in chains the second you stepped off the dock. If he let you get that far.”

“Oh, I can take Blightcaller.”

“What about the three dozen Dark Rangers?”

“...Line them up in a long hallway?”

Lingexi squinted up. Vendettarius gave her his best fake smile. She rolled her eyes.

“You sure I can’t talk you into just a little, itty-bitty bit of treason?”

Annoyance flashed in Lingexi’s eyes, but she shook her head.

“I took an oath to the Horde. I can’t just abandon it based on my...personal feelings.”

A response formed on the tip of Vendettarius’ tongue, but he bit it back. 

_This isn’t the place._

“I mean,” he began instead, “technically you  _have_ committed treason already. We took down Warchief Hellscream, didn’t we? You, me, the whole team?”

“That’s different,” Lingexi said, furrowing her brow.

“Is it? She’s one Old God artifact away from getting some new tusk shoulderpads.”

“Stop talking.”

“See? This is why I never take oaths at all if I can help it.”

“ _Please_ stop talking.”

“Fine.” Vendettarius stopped talking for all of ten seconds. “So until you inevitably realize that I’m right, what do we do?”

“Well, let’s...keep dancing for now.”

“This is hardly dancing; I’m just holding you, you have to be an active particip—”

Lingexi pulled herself up on his shoulders and kissed him, stifling the rest of his half-hearted complaint. She held him by the jaw, her lips locked over his teeth, his hands cradling her lower back. They pressed against each other, almost painfully, as if physical proximity could mend the rift between them. A few passing revelers let out low whistles, and even a few jibes; they ignored them all.

“Then just hold me,” Lingexi whispered after finally breaking the kiss as she sank back into his arms.

“I...can do that.”

“Good.”

 

“Kharn could eat her in one bite, you know,” Ton’vesi mused as she leaned against the great hall’s massive entryway, crossing her arms as she watched Lingexi and Vendettaris disappear into the ocean of dancing couples. “No bones, no scraps, just ‘chomp’ and she gone forever.”

“He’d kill both of us,” Shirong said, shaking his head.

Ton’vesi grunted dismissively.

“He’d kill  _you_ .  _I_ would get a lecture.”

“It’s the Winter Ball, and you’re contemplating murder?” he asked, downing his seventh glass of punch and setting the empty down on a passing attendant’s tray.

“You are not?” Ton’vesi asked, as if killing was the most logical thing to consider on one of the most festive nights of the year.

“...No?”

“Hmph. Your loss.”

The two stood in silence for a few minutes as they waited by the entrance; Ton’vesi gazing out into empty space, and Shirong occasionally looking over his shoulder at the night outside. The troll hunter wore a dark green tuxedo with a bright red poinsettia blossom that matched her short, spiked-up hair, while the pandaren monk wore a traditional black  _changshan_ with intricate golden inlays handwoven by a boutique merchant from the Valley of the Four Winds. Both had gotten several offers to dance from complete strangers, but both had declined each time. Well, Shirong had declined, and Ton’vesi had just stared until her potential partners retreated in fear.

“I don’t understand what he see in her!” she finally said, pointing out into the crowd.

“Okay, you’re still on this,” Shirong said, rubbing his temples.

“Of course!” Ton’vesi shot back. “She tried to  _kill_ us!”

“To be fair, lots of people try to kill us.”

“And we kill dem instead! So why not her?”

“Well—”

“First, she come in like she own de place!”

“I—”

“She never think wit’ her gut, only her head! She got no heart!”

“B—”

“She  _not_ be good enough for  _him_ !”

“Ton, are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Ton’vesi growled, obviously not fine. “Why would I not be fine?”

“Because you’re dressed up fancy, surrounded by strangers, at a dance; three of the things I know you hate,” Shirong said, putting a hand on her shoulder. He’d never seen her so rattled, and the urge to laugh was getting hard to ignore.

“I don’t...hate those things,” Ton’vesi said, with some difficulty.

“Yes you do.”

“I do hate those things,” she admitted, “but she wanted to dance, and I love her, so we dancing.”

“That’s the spirit,” Shirong said, lifting two full glasses of punch from another passing tray and handing one to Ton’vesi. She downed it in a single gulp, took the second glass, and tossed it back immediately. Shirong blinked.

“I’ll hate it de whole time,” Ton’vesi insisted, finishing her gulp.

“No, you won’t.”

“I will. I got no rhythm, I got big feet, I’m not carrying my bow—”

“You’re not going to worry about any of that. Okarnah’s gonna come down those stairs, and you’re gonna take one look at her and forget how your mouth works, and then you’re going to dance until your feet wear down to nubs and Vend’s gonna have to make you little robot feet and you’re going to clank wherever you go.”

Ton’vesi turned and stared at Shirong, who offered her a knowing look.

“What is  _wrong_ wit’ you?”

“I use humor to overcompensate for my own anxiety and doubts,” Shirong said flatly. “Also, Cythrael’s never been to one of these balls and I’m worried she’s not going to enjoy herself, but it’s easier to focus on someone else’s problems than my own.”

“Are we interrupting?” a low, husky voice asked.

Ton’vesi and Shirong turned, and their jaws went slack in unison.

Okarnah and Cythrael wore matching purple dresses with sweetheart necklines and pearl-ring chokers; the orc’s dress featured a mermaid bottom half, while the demonic blood elf’s was slit up the sides to accommodate her wide hips and wider stance. Both sported corsages – dark green for Okarnah, black for Cythrael – and their hair was pulled back into tight matching battle braids.

Shirong almost broke into a run, meeting the towering demon hunter outside.

“Cyth, you look incredible!”

“I know.”

“And modest, too,” Shirong laughed, brushing her cheek. He realized she was wearing a silver-ornamented veil over her eyes, reducing their fel fire to concealed embers. “Cyth, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not here to frighten anyone, darling,” she purred before breaking into a toothy grin as she tickled his chin with a polished claw. “At least not tonight.”

Okarnah walked past them, over to Ton’vesi, who seemed frozen to the spot. She found herself unconsciously crossing her arms; the sleeveless dress did little to hide the collection of scars across her arms and upper body, and the longer Ton’vesi’s silence went on, her face turned darker and darker green.

“D-do you like it?” she asked, searching the hunter’s face for any emotion.

Ton’vesi’s jaw worked back and forth, but nothing came out.

“Please say something,” Okarnah said, clenching her hands over her upper arms.

“...What can I say ‘bout you that hasn’t already been said about de sun or de stars,” she croaked out, clearing her suddenly dry throat before continuing. “You are...radiant. De center of my day and my night, and you appear before me dressed in beauty to rival de queens of old. If I am silent, it is because words cannot do you justice.”

“I just spent an hour on this makeup, you can’t make me cry now, damnit!” Okarnah growled as she held her wrists up to her eyes. Ton’vesi took the shaman in her arms and kissed up her shoulders and neck.

“Den I will kiss your tears away, my love, just let me see your face once more,” she cooed, nuzzling into Okarnah’s neck, tickling and nipping at her chin until the orc broke out into giggles.

“Laying it on a bit thick,” Cythrael huffed in mock disappointment. “Where’s  _my_ speech?”

“I had one, but I forgot it after the fourth glass of punch, to be honest,” Shirong said sheepishly.

“You’ll just have to make it up to me some other way later tonight,” Cythrael growled, playing with one of the buttons on his jacket.

“Oh please don’t,” Okarnah groaned, laughing as she put her hand on Ton’vesi’s chest.

“Dose stone walls not be nearly thick enough to block out you two,” the hunter added.

The four of them laughed, and, taking their dates by the hand, walked through the archway together and joined the throng of dancing Horde.

 

“I see the traitors have arrived,” Lanstalios sneered as he watched his former teammates start to dance. “I suppose they’ll just let anyone into one of these things nowadays.”

“Well,  _you’re_ here,” Chickenpatch grunted. The blood elf’s head spun around in fake shock, whipping the tall tauren’s face with his long, blonde, for-once-brushed hair.

“Patch, I’m...wait, was that a joke?”

“Maybe.” The tauren shrugged and took another sip of punch as he looked away.

“It’s a Winter Veil miracle.”

The pair had been standing over by the central punch fountain on the left side, sampling the punch for the better part of an hour. Well, Chickenpatch had been sampling the punch while Lanstalios was attempting to get drunk off of it which was proving somewhat futile given both the punch’s low alcohol content and his own high tolerance. Chickenpatch had suggested just climbing  _into_ the fountain since it was big enough, but had to physically restrain Lanstalios from doing so, and was now standing between blood elf and bowl. The two made quite a sight: the black-haired tauren with the grim-set features in a Lordaeron tuxedo, his much-smaller blood elf companion in a gold-inlaid Silvermoon dress robe.

Lanstalios stepped around Chickenpatch and dipped both his glasses into the bowl again, then turned back to the tauren with a grin.

“Hey, why don’t I have another glass or twelve, then we head back upstairs and rut until I forget how to speak Thalassian?”

Eight months ago, such a crude invitation would’ve left Chickenpatch stammering for an answer. Not so much anymore.

“No,” Chickenpatch said. “Stop drinking and dance with me.”

“What? No,” Lanstalios answered, gulping both glasses in rapid succession. He made for the bowl again, but Chickenpatch caught him by the waist.

“You’ve had enough. Dance with me.”

“I...don’t dance.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” the blood elf insisted. “ _Striptease_ and  _ballroom_ are two very different things!”

“You know how to count, that’s the important thing.” Chickenpatch lifted the two glasses from Lanstalios’ hands with surprising deftness and put them on the table. “Dance with me.”

“No. I didn’t come here to dance,” Lanstalios argued, his cheeks beginning to turn red.

“You got dressed up and came to the Winter Ball to  _not_ dance?”

“I came to get drunk!”

“You can get drunk anywhere in the city.”

“Yes, but the bars are all closed, and it’s not very festive besides,” Lanstalios insisted, pouting.

“You spent twenty minutes on eyeliner to just come down here and get drunk?” Chickenpatch asked.

“I did  _not_ spend—oh yes, I suppose I did,” the blood elf admitted. “Fine.  _One_ dance, and then I get to drink as much as I like, and you’re not to bother me about it.”

“Deal.”

“Well, hurry up.”

Chickenpatch took Lanstalios by the hand and led him out onto the floor. The two struck up a classic stance with the tauren leading just as the current song came to an end.

“The song’s over, I guess that counts! Oh well, back to the punch table...” Lanstalios started, pulling away. With one tug, Chickenpatch had pulled him back into his arms – much closer this time – hip to hip, chest to chest. The rosy color in the blood elf’s cheeks took on a darker hue.

“Not a chance.”

“I think you and I need to re-discuss personal boundaries, Mr. Patch,” he said, attempting a businesslike tone.

“Later. Dance now,” Chickenpatch ordered. Lanstalios pouted again, but then the music started up, and they were off, joining the spinning mass, moving in time with the horns, bells, and somewhat-jarring tribal percussion. Chickenpatch’s massive size ensured they got a wide berth, and the two danced on in silence, swept up in the moment. The tauren thought about how nice it was, not just that Lanstalios had finally shut up, but for the two of them to just be close to each other, and the blood elf...thought about a great many more things than his deft movements let on. Finally, the song came to a close, but Lanstalios made no effort to leave.

“We don’t have to keep dancing,” Chickenpatch said, feeling the blood elf tremble next to him.

“I haven’t danced with  _anyone_ since...” he trailed off. The tauren saw moisture forming around Lanstalios’ eyes.

“Neither have I,” he said.

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Lanstalios said, smiling but sniffing.

“I think I do.”

The band struck up another tune, faster than before. Chickenpatch wiped a tear from Lanstalios’ cheek.

“We can go, if you want.”

“Maybe...just one more?” Lanstalios asked. Chickenpatch smiled back and brushed a long, golden strand of hair behind the blood elf’s ears. Seeing him like this – emotionally vulnerable, at a loss for words, _his hair actually brushed_ – was unusual, and awoke butterflies in Chickenpatch’s stomach. The urge to lighten the atmosphere was overwhelming.

“You really are quite handsome when you’re not being such a little shit.”

Lanstalios slapped Chickenpatch lightly on the chest. It was like hitting a slab of frozen meat.

“I did  _not_ spend twenty minutes on eyeliner for you to call me  _handsome_ !”

“Beautiful, then.”

“That’s better,” he sighed, standing up on his tiptoes to kiss Chickenpatch on the chin, “now lead on before I change my mind.”

 

Audoris laid the blanket down over Khatep as he snoozed in his chair by the fireplace, surrounded by dozens of sewing implements and numerous scraps of fabric. The warlock had worked nearly a week without sleep to finish everyone’s dresses in time for the Winter Ball; an endeavor that had taxed him considerably, even for a creature that didn’t really need much sleep in the first place. Now he snored softly, tentacles fluttering, his labors finally finished. 

She tucked the light blanket underneath where she guessed his chin would be, and quietly closed the door behind her. Throughout the last week, Audoris had insisted he not make her a dress – he barely had time to finish the ones he was already planning on – but it had only been half out of selfless concern. She crept back to her own room and opened the closet, reaching into the back for one of her most prized possessions, and her iron jaw rose into a smile as her bony fingers found what she had been looking for.

A few moments later, Audoris had slithered into her old, black evening gown, one of the few relics of her living existence that she still kept around. It was unadorned with any sort of pattern or inlay –  in spite of her old, high class life,  her priestly father had blanched at allowing her to have a  party gown at all, let alone something flashy – but it was hers, and her skin knew every inch of its soft, dark fabric. Of course, she had been somewhat more fleshy the last time she wore it, so she had to take the straps that once hung loosely around her upper arms and put them over her shoulders in order to get it to stay up, but the effect was still more or less the same. A quick jaunt by the mirror and the makeup kit, and she was ready to go.

Down the stairs to the outside world, down more stairs to the lower levels of the pyramid, and down even more stairs to the great hall entrance, a warm glow and  muffled music emanating from within. As Audoris approached the doorway, her pace slowed until she stopped a few feet from the threshold. Inside the hall, there were hundreds of people, including her friends, dancing the night away and getting sauced on punch, but inside her head, a black rumbling was rising at the back of her mind. She had come so far in the last few years, sealing the dark power within her behind a barrier of Light thanks to the training and efforts of her fellow priests in the Netherlight Temple, but such close proximity to so many people...she could feel  _his_ hunger,  _his_ rage. She could contain it, of that there was no question, but could she enjoy the evening at the same time? Why even bother if this was what she was going to have to put up with all night? 

_This was a mistake,_ she thought,  _I should’ve just stayed home._

“Punch?” a deep voice asked, and she practically jumped at the sound. Audoris turned toward the voice, and found a tall, pale orc with his hand outstretched, offering her a glass. His long, black hair was pulled back in an elaborated multi-braid, and the scarred skin that was visible beneath his dark orcish armor was dotted with tribal bone piercings; she might’ve been afraid if not for the somewhat-embarrassed smile he wore at seeing her startled. “Sorry!” he quickly apologized, “I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked like you were in need of some liquid courage.”

She daintily took the offered glass from between his gloved fingers and gave it a sip.

“I don’t usually go in much for dancing,” she lied, “or parties. Or large crowds of any sort.”

“Same,” the orc said, nodding. “Although you’re dressed much more the part than I am. If I bump into someone wearing this, I’ll probably draw blood.” She snorted, an uglier laugh than she’d meant to let out. The orc shrugged and continued, “You’d probably just draw longing looks.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Audoris asked, smoothing out her gown and suddenly glad her undead complexion prevented any noticeable blushing. The orc was handsome in a savage sort of way, and she found herself drawn to his fire-orange eyes as they twinkled in the orange twilight outside the hall archway. “Just an old family heirloom.”

 _Wait, is he wearing eyeliner? He is! Oh, I like that._ _Oh no, I like that!_

“So is my father’s sword,” the orc said, nodding, “but it still cuts a fine line.”

“I’m sorry,” Audoris started, trying to change the subject before he came up with any other smooth lines, “I didn’t catch your name, mister…?”

“Dalok, of the Shattered Hand,” he introduced himself, adding a polite bow. “And you are?”

“Audoris,” she answered. “Twice formerly of Lordaeron.”

“ _The Voidwitch_ ,” Dalok whispered under his breath.

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“It’s, uh, I, that is to say—” Now it was Dalok’s turn to take a startled step back as he tried to explain himself. Audoris was more surprised than angry at the ominous-sounding title in that moment, but wanted a proper explanation all the same.

“The _Voidwitch_?”

“It’s...it’s a title of honor,” Dalok began, a sheen of sweat beginning to form on his brow, “Where I come from, you’re...kind of a legend.”

“...A legend? Me?” Audoris asked, her metal jaw hanging open.

“Well, yes. I grew up on stories of warriors from another world who came through the Dark Portal and laid the Iron Horde low; the Blue Beastmaster, the Hooded Horror, even the Living Death who defeated Kargath Bladefist in single combat!” It dawned on Audoris who she was actually talking to; it seemed there was indeed truth to the rumors that Warchief Windrunner had re-opened the portal to Draenor, and she was speaking to the proof! “And, of course, the Voidwitch, who wielded the powers of darkness as shamans call the powers of the living world. I hope you don’t think this forward, but you’re far more beautiful than the stories said.”

Audoris choked on her punch, and Dalok slapped himself on the forehead.

“That _was_ a bit forward,” she admitted after she recovered, “at least for this early in the evening. I’m going to need at least three more glasses of punch before I allow that sort of talk, Mister Dalok.”

_Wait, where did that come from?_

“I could bring you a tray,” he suggested.

“How about a dance first?”

“A what?”

Dalok froze in place, his face bright red. Audoris saw the smooth orc that had offered her a glass of punch begin to dissipate in the warm Zandalari air, revealing someone a great deal more vulnerable – or at least in some degree in awe of her – beneath.

_Oh dear, he’s kind of cute when he’s panicking._

“A dance, of course,” she said, taking a step towards him. “You can’t call me beautiful and then refuse to dance with me, that would just be _rude_.”

 _What am I doing? Half a glass of this punch_ _with_ _a tall orc and_ _suddenly I’m acting like..._ _w_ _hat has gotten into me?_

“I would _love_ to dance with you, but...I...can’t.”

“You can’t dance?”

“No, I can, just...not like that.” Dalok gestured to the revelers in the great hall, arm in arm, waltzing and two-stepping and swinging to the music as it swept through the air. “I don’t know how.”

“Well,” Audoris began, then downed the rest of her punch before setting the glass by the archway, “I’ll teach you.”

“I...really, I couldn’t,” he stammered, fidgeting with one of the buckles on his armor.

“It’s really not as dreadful as all that, I promise.”

“Alright,” Dalok sighed, turning redder by the moment, “how do I start?”

“Well, first you put your hand on my waist,” Audoris began, taking hold of his wrist and guiding him to the appropriate position. It felt like hefting a warhammer. “Like this. No, that’s my back. Lower.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I s—of course I’m sure. Now lowe— _too low_!”

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine. Now take my other hand in yours and hold it out like _this_.”

“That seems easy enough.”

“It’s the easiest part. Now we have to actually start dancing.”

Dalok’s grip went rigid.

“ _Breathe_ , Mister Dalok,” Audoris laughed. “We’ll start slow. First, I’m going to step _back_ with my _right_ foot and you’re going to step _forward_ with your _left_ foot...”

And so it went for the next five or so minutes, Dalok looking down at his feet like a toddler learning to walk, and Audoris watching his face as the panic slowly melted away into something approaching the confidence he’d first shown. She’d known his type, in her day; dangerous behind their bastions of smooth flirtation and smoldering looks, but terrified as soon as they were caught out of position. The woman she’d been a lifetime ago _liked_ those types, if only for the satisfaction of watching them squirm when she met them blow-for-blow. That had been years in the past, when she was a very different person, not the least of discrepancies being a beating heart. Had she really spent all the time since denying herself the things that had made her happy, _punishing_ herself for the past? Some of it was to keep the beast in check, but surely a little nonsense in moderation couldn’t hurt. As the waltz came to an end, she found herself reluctant to let go of his hand, and his large, muscular fingers traced the side of her waist as he released his grip.

“Not bad for a first time,” she concluded, giving a little bow.

“I appreciate you going easy on me,” Dalok said, returning the motion. “What next?”

 _What indeed?_ Audoris thought as she tapped her finger on her metal chin. She looked back at the party, heard the rumble in the back of her mind again, and silenced it through sheer determination. No dormant void creature was going to ruin _her_ night!

“Mister Dalok, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the punch fountain?”

 

Athisia watched the orc and the undead enter the great hall arm-in-arm, and rolled her eyes. Orcs had never really been her type – a bit too rough around the edges for her tastes – but still, the Mag’har savage might’ve been fun while he lasted. His initial rejection would’ve hurt less if he wasn’t escorting a _corpse_ now.

 _Oh well, plenty of fish in the sea_ , she thought as she sipped for one of the half-dozen punch glasses being offered by the retinue of lovestruck Zandalari that had begun to follow her since she first set foot on the accursedly humid island. Four men and two women doted on her, surrounding her with offers to dance and cookie plates they thought she might like. It wasn’t quite the crowd she used to pull back in her glory days in Suramar, but it was a start. The Zandalari, while not as imaginative as she liked her partners, did have _incredible_ stamina; she supposed she would make do. Unfortunately, there were other, more pressing matters at the moment to attend to.

After waving her enamored entourage away amidst longing cries of ‘Lady Athisia! Lady Athisia!’ she made her way to the front of the hall and up behind the royal dias. The sheer purple dress she wore, its texture thick in just enough places to leave something to the imagination of onlookers, flowed behind her in waves like a ship passing on a still lake. Utilizing just a fraction of magic to enhance her speed, she cut past the Dark Rangers and stepped in front of Nathanos Blightcaller to attend her Warchief directly.

“Excuse me!” Blightcaller began, reaching for an axe.

“You’re excused,” Athisia spat, then turned back to Sylvanas, who appeared to be ignoring both of them. “Dark Lady, they’ve all arrived, save for that prophet-thing; my spies inform me it’s currently sleeping in its quarters, and unlikely to make an appearance.”

“Very well,” the Banshee Queen replied with only the barest hint of disappointment. “Thank you, Lady Athuuniel; you may go.”

“I live to serve, Dark Lady.” Athisia’s heart fluttered so much at hearing her true title once more that the casual dismissal was forgotten before she had returned to the hall floor. The Warchief had promised, once she had proven her worth, her name and standing would be restored; Athisia didn’t believe a word of it and fully expected Sylvanas to betray her as soon as her usefulness was outlived, but it was a nice fantasy to entertain in the mean time. The ‘mission’ part in tonight’s festivities was over, nothing to do now but attach herself to some attractive noble and get herself sauced – or better yet, find Durkash. He’d kept his distance – although he slipped a few times – since the boat ride from Stormwind, but she _had_ grown fond of him in her way. Oh, she had such things to teach that strapping young man…

Lost in a particularly vivid thought, she bumped face-first into a Zandalari woman dressed in scant leathers and colorful plumage. The woman turned around, angry at first, then her expression changed to a pleasant smile.

“Lady Athisia, what a pleasant surprise!”

“Ah, Durksha! _Almost_ the troll I was looking for!” Athisia joked, rubbing her nose.

“You are looking for my brother, I trust?” Durksha inquired with a knowing eyebrow raise.

“I, uh, yes, yes I am,” the nightborne admitted. Durksha grunted approvingly, and put her arm around Athisia’s shoulder.

“I thought as much,” she said. “Come, he is over by the wall, holding up a column!”

Athisia liked Durksha; the troll was a bit of a party girl herself, and the obvious leader of her own social group, which followed her around in a way Athisia found comfortingly familiar. She could probably teach the young troll a thing or two, but every time the opportunity came up, Durksha had some other social engagement. How she balanced such a life with her studies in the temple – her mastery of druidic shape-changing was common knowledge in the city – was a mystery, but one Athisia was determined to unravel, given time.

Just as Athisia spotted Durkash, standing against a column and looking as out of place as ever without his sword in his hand, she felt Durksha’s hand stop her forward motion.

“Lady Athisia, first a word, if you would be so kind,” Durksha asked, as pleasant as ever.

 _She might have a future as a courtesan if the druid thing doesn’t work out_ , Athisia thought.

“Of course, dear.”

The troll woman drew close, and the smile faded, leaving only the empty gaze of her teal eyes.

“I know you hold the heart of my brother in your hand,” Durksha started, “I do not know what transpired on Princess Talanji’s ship, but he watches you from afar, and whispers your name in his sleep. I think he wrote a poem about you last week, but he would not let me see it.”

Athisia’s cheeks darkened in spite of herself.

“I-I hardly know what to say, I’m honor—”

“Do _not_ mistake my brother’s infatuation for _my_ approval,” Durksha hissed. “I know your kind, and if not for my brother’s fool heart, I would have cast you overboard the moment you set foot upon my lady’s ship!”

Athisia’s fingers began to grow cold as the first syllables of a spell began to roll off her tongue despite her mouth being clamped shut.

“I love my brother more than anything, but to kill you now would be to strike his heart, and so I let you live for now.” Athisia began to notice things about Durksha she had never seen before. Was her skin always that scaly, her mohawk so rigid? Her nails always so long and black? Her teeth so _sharp_? Mysteries, mysteries. “But know this: if you break my brother’s fool heart, I will skin you and make a cloak from your hide and I will feed the rest to the devilsaurs. Also, I will make sure you are alive throughout the process, until, of course, you are _eaten_. Do you understand?”

“Well—”

“Simple answer: yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Durksha grunted as she released Athisia’s shoulder. The fanged mouth curled back into a courtly smile, and the druid gave her an unnecessarily deep bow. “Please, enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Athisia!” She vanished into the crowd like a snake in reeds, leaving the nightborne mage to decide whether she was furious, frightened, turned on, or some combination of the three. After resolving to return to the question later, she floated over to Durkash, who looked like he was trying his best to merge with the column of gold he was leaning on. His chest was bare, but ceremonial armor covered his legs and forearms, and a circlet of gold sat atop his dark hair.

“Durkash, my dear?”

“Lady Athisia!” The punch glass cracked in his grip, and the poor boy looked ready to bolt, but there was nowhere to hide. “Y-you look...” he trailed off as he drank all of her in with his eyes. The dress was not only sheer, it was _tight_ , and held perfectly in place by a few strategically-situated silver ornaments; it trailed behind her ten-inch heels by a few feet, and ribbons of the same material draped across her shoulders, attached by silver rings to both index fingers. Her neck was _scandalously_ bare, leaving her bejeweled ears the sole point of focus – besides, of course, her impeccably decorated face.

“Ravishing? Radiant? Whatever it is you were going to say, it’s true,” she said, tossing her brilliant white hair over her shoulder. “Come, dance with me.”

Before he could protest, she had removed the cracked glass from his hand, placed it on a nearby table, and locked her other arm around his own, pulling him off the column and onto the dancefloor. She swept him in a semi-circle until he swung back around into her arms, and then they were off, cutting a rug – or, in this case, a gold-encrusted floor – with the rest of them.

“Your sister cares about you very much, doesn’t she?” Athisia asked once the troll appeared to have gotten his bearings.

“She says I need to lighten up,” Durkash admitted with a sheepish smile. “I think I give her a poor reputation among her friends. My sister lives for the party as much as her studies, and I...do not. I have my blade, and that is the beginning and end of it. Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Athisia lied. “I have no brothers or sisters of my own, let alone ones I’m close to. The two of you seem to get on quite well, in spite of your differences.”

“She is patient with me; I could ask for nothing more.”

“I see,” she said, feeling as if a pair of brutal, teal eyes was glaring at her from a darkened corner. “Perhaps later this week we could all sit down and get to know each other better!”

“Heh, my sister is her own woman; she is not one for talk when she could be dancing or sparring with the other druids. I cannot vouch for her,” Durkash said with a laugh.

“And what about you, my handsome champion? Perhaps just the two of us, then – talking, of course?”

“I...am always available to your summons, Lady Athisia.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Athisia said, cupping the Zandalari’s chin and turning his head towards her own, “and yet you have not looked me in the eye since we started dancing.” Even facing her, he averted his gaze, looking down at his feet or over her shoulder. The music slowed and softened, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until he could look nowhere _but_ her eyes. “Half of the fools here tonight would _kill_ to hold me in their arms, yet here I am in yours,” she whispered, teasing the tips of his long hair with her fingers. “I am right where I want to be.”

The kiss was a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. Durkash was careful, _so_ careful, not to hook her on his gold-tipped tusks, but his passion, his desire was plainly evident; she decided to reward him for the extra effort later. He had kissed her before – on the neck, on the arms, on...other places – but never on the lips; this was a considerable escalation, one the lightness in her head and chest warned her she had not properly prepared for.

 _Oh, what’s the harm?_ she thought, _unexpected developments are good for keeping one’s wits sharp._

“I-I don’t know what came over me,” Durkash blurted out, suddenly breaking the lip-lock. “A thousand apologies, Lady Athisia!”

“Mmm...I’ll just have to punish your insolence later tonight,” Athisia playfully growled. Durkash let out a nervous laugh.

 

The clear chiming of a fork against a glass brought the festivities to a momentary halt, the music silenced and the dancers still as all eyes went to the dias at the end of the great hall. Nathanos Blightcaller stepped to the front of the platform, a venomous smile barely concealed beneath his well-trimmed beard.

“Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde and Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, has prepared a toast for this evening’s festivities!” he barked, “Let all in attendance harken to her words!”

Sylvanas rose from her seat and rounded the royal table, a surprisingly easy smile crossing her severe features as she stirred her drink with an idle finger. Blightcaller bowed low as she passed, a display she treated with uncharacteristic amusement, giving him a pat on the head like a loyal pet. When the Banshee Queen’s champion rose, his expression could be best described as ‘utter vexation.’

“A bit dramatic considering the occasion, but thank you, Nathanos,” Sylvanas said as she took the stage, giving him a nod the same way a performer would acknowledge their opening act. “As many of you know, he’s a much better shot than he is at reading a room.”

A surprising amount of laughter rose from the watching crowd.

“Did she just...tell a joke?” Lingexi asked, still in Vendettarius’ arms.

“I think she did,” he answered. “That can’t be good.”

“I cannot actually digest any of this delightful punch, but as Warchief I _have_ prepared a toast for it. The irony is not lost on me,” she began. “This has been a hard year for the Horde. Not only did we drive the Burning Legion from this world, but King Greymane selfishly broke the truce between our people and the Alliance during that very same conflict, setting in motion a string of hostilities that culminated in the tragic destruction of Lordaeron, the city _I_ had to come to call home for many years.” A rumble of muffled saber-rattling went up among the crowd. The defeat at the Undercity was still strikingly bitter for all those present, particularly the Forsaken. “We were defeated that day, but the ashes of defeat are the most fertile soil from which victory may spring.”

“She was kind of reaching with that one,” Shirong whispered.

“Illidan never took this long,” Cythrael whispered back.

“The defeat at the Undercity taught the Horde that we must reach out, that we must seek those who share our common enemies. As you can see,” Sylvanas said, gesturing to the great golden hall around them all, “we were successful. King Rastakhan’s generosity and foresight has allowed our peoples to forge a partnership that will last long after the blue banners of Stormwind have fallen and the islands of Kul Tiras have sunk beneath the waves!”

The rumbling erupted into a raucous cheer; most of the revelers, sauced as they were, were ready to march then and there. Sylvanas grinned.

“It is with that partnership in mind that, tonight, I raise a toast to _loyalty_. As I said, this has been a hard year. Unending war crushes the soul, and for all the ways the Alliance has wronged us, open war so soon after the Legion’s defeat is the last thing on any of our minds, least of all my own. Yet we are at war regardless. In the face of such an immediate conflict, it was your loyalty that allowed the Horde to hold its ground when the Boy-King Wrynn’s wolves were at our door! It was your loyalty that allowed the Horde to strike a blow against the savage night elves from which they will never recover! And it _is_ your continued loyalty that will allow us to win this war once and for all! Tonight, I drink to every loyal son and daughter of the Horde, to those who have died with honor, and those generations yet to come for which we fight!”

Punch glasses were hoisted high and thrown to the ground with equal aplomb. The Zandalari attendants, unfamiliar with the common Horde practice, were terrified.

“But lastly, in the uncharacteristic good humor I find myself in this evening, I drink to one other group: the _dis_ loyal,” Sylvanas spoke, her tone suddenly serious, and her eyes scanning the crowd. She found each of the Hidden Hand and looked them each in the eyes, just in case she wasn’t being clear enough. “They are among us, even now. Some are fools, believing I have courted war when my people have begged for peace. Some are weak-willed, toothless and tired, bought into the lie that war is anything but a tooth-and-nail fight for existence. And a select few,” Sylvanas continued, her gaze making its way back to Vendettarius, “are simply ungrateful, hypocrites and traitors who enjoy the freedoms provided by my leadership, then question the manner in which those freedoms are provided – perhaps believing they could do better, given the opportunity. But enough about them.”

Sylvanas raised her glass to the ceiling, and the revelers – save for a few – followed suit.

“To the loyal; may they live and fight forever! And to the disloyal; may they get _exactly_ what is coming to them. For the Horde!”

A gurgling roar went up in the grand hall as the revelers attempted to cheer and drink at the same time.

“A grand toast,” King Rastakhan commented, rising to stand beside her. “What do you do for an encore?”

“I don’t juggle, if that’s what you’re asking,” the Warchief said as she finished her drink. “I could make Blightcaller jump through a few hoops.”

The noise in the hall was so loud that the Zandalari king wasn’t sure if her champion had heard. A look over his shoulder and Nathanos’ red eyes bulging in indignation informed King Rastakhan that he had.

“I was thinking a dance, actually. Your people move so well, I assume you have some skill in the art,” King Rastakhan said, offering a hand. The Warchief hesitated a moment, then took it.

“More than some, if I’m being perfectly modest,” she said.

“Excellent,” he replied, “because I have none whatsoever. Apologies in advance.”

The two moved to the center of the room and began to waltz on their own, flanked by a circle of Dark Rangers all waltzing with each other. It was a strange sight, though not the strangest that would be seen in that city before the end of the war. Outside, snow enveloped the golden city, sparkling beneath the stars as well as the several billion string lights strewn across every available surface. The Winter Ball would extend long into the night and several hours into what could be roughly referred to as morning; couples would retire to their respective chambers, and friends would pass out on furniture to sleep the holiday away. The veil of winter fell over Zandalar, while across the sea, the fleets of Kul Tiras began to stir.


End file.
